


Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright

by Volavi



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Under the Red Hood, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Age Reversal, Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dick Grayson is inappropriate, Dick Grayson was the second Robin, Dick is not well, Jason Todd is Nightwing, Jason Todd was the first Robin, JayDick Week, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, One-Sided Attraction, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Right?, What-If, dick grayson is super creepy, pit-induced madness, set in the Young Justice universe, we know what happened to the second Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volavi/pseuds/Volavi
Summary: Bad Robin.On good days, Jason knew that the constant murmur in the back of his head wasn’t true. That Alfred didn’t believe it, Tim didn’t believe it, even Bruce didn’t really believe it.Bad Robin.Other days, that was all that he can think, a counterpoint to every victory, an endorsement to every failure. The refrain was a constant undercurrent, sometimes loud, sometimes barely audible, never totally gone.Bad Robin.But Jason is an excellent Nightwing. He knows this, every day.





	Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright

**Author's Note:**

> What if Dick and Jason had their ages reversed? Jason is older so Jason becomes the first Robin and Dick becomes the second? What if the Joker still kills the second Robin? 
> 
> Set in the Young Justice cartoon universe. Occurs shortly after the Season 2 finale.
> 
> So Dick is creepy in this. Super creepy. Full spoilers and triggers in the end notes.

I’m not the first bird, or the third, and I am not even a bird anymore.

I just need to warn the current bird. Tell him that it’s not safe, and he should go be a normal kid. Forget the scowly cowley man and his crusade that makes children into soldiers.

I’ve been stalking him for a while tonight, watching him patrol, waiting for just the right moment to give him my warning. I uploaded my virus this morning, and dear Dr. Quinzel is coming along nicely, so it’s time for the next stage in my plan - get Robin off the street. I wanted to do it as soon as I came to Gotham, but it's a chess game. No attracting the bat until enough pieces are in place.

I pause and fall back when I see the newest little Robin fighting on a rooftop, at least ten to one. I watch him clinically to assess his dexterity, technique, accuracy, and awareness. The bo staff is a wise choice for him - it extends his reach and suits his speed. Despite the fact that he’s doing well, I can feel my anxiety tick upwards the longer the fight goes on. He’s a stranger to me, but also part of my legacy, so I have promised myself to keep him safe.

I distract myself by reminding myself of the goal. A word of warning to the third bird. A word to the wise, a bird in hand, a bird in disguise.

I've heard people say “a little bird told me,” I know I have, and now the hood will tell the little bird. I'm the hood. Little red riding hood. No. Wrong hood. The bird is robin red breast. The hood is not Robin Hood. A different hood entirely. Again. But I used to be a Robin. So. Maybe a Robin Hood in a way? 

Robin Hood's a good guy. But the bad guys think he's a bad guy. It works.

The tiny Robin shouldn’t be out at all - he’s so little. Bigger than me, when I started, but smaller than I was at the end. That’s why I’m here - the bat should keep his birds safe.

He doesn’t. Cannot or will not. I don't care which. It's the same end result - his birds are not safe.

Talia told me that the newest Robin’s name is Tim. Told me I met him before. At least once for sure, she said. I don't care about that either. That's not why I need to keep him safe.

How dare the Robin sing?

The newest Robin is surrounded, and I wonder if I should intervene. He’s outnumbered and undersized, but maybe not underclassed. He fights smart, I can tell from here, and it's almost a joy to watch, until a thug gets a lucky kick against the kid’s knee.

Down goes the Robin.

I'm up and pacing and this wasn't the plan because I need to warn him stop him save him keep him off the street but he's down longer than I like. I can't warn him if he's . . .

Why isn't he up? He needs to. Get. Up.

They’ve circled him now and I see them kicking and hear them laughing and he's not - he’s not like me, I don’t think he’s going to die, but it's too close.

Robins are red, people who are angry see red, but I see green. Pit green. Acidic, vile bile green.

When it's over I tie them up and gag them while they're still unconscious and get to work. They were supposed to hear my message but there's more than one way to get a point across.

Dagger.

I take out my kris and grab the nearest goon’s arm to roll up the sleeve. I use the sharp point to trace ‘stay away from the bird’ in his skin. He wakes as soon as the point pierces flesh - eyes shining wide and desperate. He struggles against the bonds but can't break free. The next mook gets ‘don’t touch Robin.’ I’m having fun, coming up with a new message for each arm. One guy gets a sweet little bird with a barred circle over it. I’m not entirely happy with the art, but I think he’ll understand what I mean. I'm almost done carving a warning into the skin of the last one’s arm when Robin the Third wakes up. Maybe I should call him Tertius.

Tertius doesn't seem to like my method for communicating my message. He yells at me. It's the cutest thing I've seen in weeks.

“You are adorable,” I tell him. “It isn't safe for you. You must never fly again.” I point the bloody kris at him for emphasis.

He pales underneath the blood and bruises. Good. He's taking me seriously.

Dagger down.

 

******

 

Jason is having one of those days, when he can’t help thinking about how the hell he ended up in Bludhaven trying to do the solo hero thing.

Bad Robin.

On good days, Jason knew that the constant murmur in the back of his head wasn’t true. That Alfred didn’t believe it, Tim didn’t believe it, even Bruce didn’t really believe it.

Bad Robin.

Other days, that was all that he can think, a counterpoint to every victory, an endorsement to every failure. The refrain was a constant undercurrent, sometimes loud, sometimes barely audible, never totally gone.

Bad Robin.

But Jason is an excellent Nightwing. He knows this, every day.

A few weeks ago, when he told Kaldur that he was taking a leave of absence from the team, he said the right things. Technically lies - it was Dick that started it all with Roy, Wally and Kaldur, not Jason - but it fit with the cover. Nightwing and Wally didn’t really get along, and the team thought it was because Robin and Kid Flash grew apart as they grew older. No one knows that Dick and Jason were Robin at the same time, and Jason was not Wally’s Robin. Not the good Robin.

Bad Robin.

When Dick died and Jason became Nightwing, Wally was the only one on the team that knew, and he had no reason to be best buds with his dead friend’s replacement.

Jason joined the team to fill a gap. He isn’t sure when or if he’ll be returning.

He heads back to Bludhaven. Nightwing has a city to protect.

Batman calls just a few weeks after Jason that conversation with Kaldur.

“I need you. Robin has been attacked.”

Jason sighs with exaggerated drama and angst, pretending to be fed-up. When Bruce doesn’t react, Jason huffs. “Fine. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Jason arrives at the cave fifty minutes later to find Bruce at the computer. He acknowledges Jason’s presence with a small grunt, which is better than immediately barking orders. Bruce pushes a button and a picture of a man in a red full face helmet, a brown leather jacket over obvious body armor, and cargo pants appears on the screen. He looks strong but lean, with guns in thigh holsters.

“A new player is on the scene. Average height, unknown age, first sighted early last month. We don’t have a lot of information on him, until he attacked and badly beat some thugs that Robin was fighting. ”

“So is he a hero?”

“I don’t think so - he used a knife to carve ‘no more birds’ and other warnings on the arms of the thugs, then told Robin it wasn’t safe and he must ‘never fly again.’”

“This new guy single-handedly took on a group that was giving Robin trouble, and we’ve never heard of him before? Losing your touch, old man?”

Bruce grunts. “Tim sprained his knee so he’s going to be benched for a while, but keep an eye out. We don’t know if he has a warning for you, too.”

“Anything else? One weird dude in a helmet - even a really creepy dude - doesn’t seem enough to call me in from the ‘Haven.”

Bruce types and then gestures at the screen. “Look at this.”

The image of the man in the red helmet is replaced by an article about one of the Joker’s more notorious crime sprees, when he’d gassed an entire mall full of holiday shoppers one December and stole all of the amethysts and emeralds from every jewelry store. Jason remembers it well - it was only Tim’s second time confronting the Joker and he’d done admirably. Jason and Batman had been there too, of course, but one photographer had managed a clear shot of Tim’s face, tired but triumphant, with a small trail of blood down one cheek. There had also been lots of interviews with the gassed shoppers, and shots of Joker graffiti throughout the mall.

The article is definitely about the same incident - Jason recognizes the picture of Tim and enough details - but some facts are missing. The Joker isn’t referred to by name a single time, instead the article talks about “an unknown Gotham villain” or “the culprit is a suspected Arkham escapee, but we have no idea what he or she calls themselves.” The picture of the graffiti is oddly fuzzy - maybe even deliberately blurred - so that even though Jason knows it said “Ha ha ha” he can’t make it out. The entire article has been rewritten to elide the Joker’s existence as much as possible.

“Every article I can find is the same,” Bruce says, and a dozen windows open across multiple screens. “Not a single direct reference to the Joker.”  

“What about tv?” Jason asks.

Bruce presses a few keys and a video of Vicki Vale starts playing. Every time she would have said “Joker” in the original broadcast, her mouth is briefly pixelated and a computer voiceover says “unknown” or “anonymous.”

“Everything I find is like this,” Bruce says. “Even chat sites, and it updates almost instantly.”

He starts typing in another window, a popular forum for Gotham criminal activity. _I saw the Joker last night._ Within 30 seconds, despite Bruce’s hands not moving, the words ‘the Joker’ are deleted and replaced with ‘a bad guy.’

“That is fucking weird,” Jason says.

Bruce grunts. “It appears that a massive, self-replicating virus has permeated the net, erasing the Joker. It’s a masterpiece of programming.”

“Who did this?”

Bruce shakes his head. “None of the usual suspects are taking any credit for it, and I don’t recognize the style.”

“What about the actual Joker? Still in Arkham?”

“Yes, and I’ve had them double security.”

“Okay, but whoever is erasing the words online can’t erase actual memories, can they?” It’s a reasonable question. Whether from sorcery or alien technology, that kind of thing wouldn’t be unheard of in Gotham.

Bruce glances at Jason, a sign of approval. “Not as far as I can tell. There’s been an increase in online rumors however, many of them directly contradicting the facts, but professing to be the truth.”

“Damn. The Joker must be pissed. He’s being purposefully erased.”

“That’s why we need to keep an eye on this hacker, as well as the man in the red helmet.”

 

*********

 

I haven’t seen the little Robin - Tertius - since I sent the message, though I do see the Bat and the man in black and blue a few times. Nightwing. I know that the first Robin became Nightwing after the second Robin died, though I’m unsure of the reasons behind it. Maybe we could sit down and have a nice cup of tea and swap stories? I know that Nightwing joined my former team and Batman didn’t take a new Robin for some time. 

Uno, dos, tres. Uno goes off the grid and comes back in black and blue. Dos dies. What kind of person would decide third time’s the charm, after what happened to Dos?

My virus is working just as I’d planned, and I spend hours every day countering every story with fabrications of my own, claiming that crimes that were attributed to the Joker were actually Two Face, or the Riddler, or Penguin. I invent and weave, mixing lies with truth until even the people who’d actually been there begin to doubt themselves. People attribute a popular quote to Napoleon - that history is a set of lies that have been agreed upon. I am going to be the one to make that true. Incontrovertible, inconceivable, incompatible.

While I’m writing a blog post explaining why one of the Joker’s crimes was actually the Mad Hatter, my personal burner phone rings. Only a few people have the number - Talia, Harley, a couple of trusted colleagues. I try to always answer whenever Harley - _Harleen -_ calls me collect from her luxury inpatient treatment center. (She recognized me, I think, but she never asked and I never told.) I haven’t told her that it’s being paid for by money I’ve siphoned off from her former partner’s Swiss bank accounts, but she’s smart enough to guess. It took me a few months, but I finally got her to leave _him_ then agree to psychiatric help. I’ll start the next phase of my plan as soon as I’m sure she’s going to stay. Though the fact that she’s essentially spending time on a five star resort in the Caribbean that just also happens to offer therapy can’t hurt.

I’m not a bad guy; just a little mad. (Mad crazy or mad angry? Both, I think, sometimes.) I know a hawk from a handsaw; a raven from a writing-desk. Bird expert, that’s me.  

The street-level thugs and gang members are already afraid of me. I seem to have developed a bit of a reputation for violence. And explosions. I hadn’t meant to beat the goons that attacked Robin quite so aggressively - seems nothing brings out the pit quite like hurting kids, who’d have thought - but the stories of that particular incident have actually been quite helpful.

Three weeks after Harleen leaves Gotham, I stroll into the main room of the Joker’s current base. He’s still in Arkham, but his lieutenants and a large part of his gang live and work out of this place, keeping his criminal empire chugging along while he works on his escape.

I push a button on my wrist computer and explosions rock the base.  

“All of your base are belong to me!” They can’t see it, but I grin behind the helmet. I pull out my guns and get to work. “So what do you think? Should I play Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’? Or ‘Rock the Casbah’ by the Clash?”

 

*************

 

“Tim’s knee is healing up nicely, and he should be able to patrol again soon,” Bruce says one night as Jason finishes typing up his report.

“How’s the little malingerer doing?” Jason asks, glancing away from the screen long enough to smirk at Bruce.

Bruce’s lips give a wry twist. “Alfred is very insistent that he rest a few more days. No point in rushing healing - not this time anyway. How did it go tonight?”

“I saw the Red Hood again, about a block away. It was the strangest thing - as soon as he saw me, he turned and ran.”

“You didn’t catch him.” It’s a statement - Bruce already knows the answer.

“No. He’s fuc-- freaking fast. He’s been trained, and trained well. The way he moves - reminded me a bit of Dickface.”

Bruce clears his throat. “I see the resemblance too, but he’s gone.”

Jason thinks of a funeral, cool crisp autumn air, uncooperative sunlight, the smell of fresh earth and lilies.

“I know.” He held the body. “Red Hood is good, is all I’m saying.”

Bruce frowns at his own computer screen. “He is, and we still don’t know why he’s taken over Joker’s gang.”

“Think he has some kind of vendetta?”

“I do. I’m not sure how - yet - but it must be related to the Joker erasure program.”

“So we have someone who can run rooftops like a bat or maybe an arrow, ruthless and scary enough to take over Joker’s gang, and a genius level hacker.”

Bruce grunts. “Might not all be the same person, but yes.”

“We weren’t the same person. Batman had one Robin, but Bruce Wayne had two sons.”

Bruce looks at Jason, long and slow, and doesn’t drop his eyes. “Was it a mistake?”

Jason looks back, meeting his eyes without flinching. Finally he gives a shit-eating grin. “Nah. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He can’t regret his time as Robin, when he and Dick shared the name. How it ended, maybe. But not those first few years. He ups the sarcasm in his voice. “This Hood guy - we have no idea what his long term game is. Fun. I’m so glad I answered your phone call.”

  


*********

 

One of my lieutenants told me that she saw Robin, so I head out myself to check. Tertius hasn’t been seen for weeks, and I thought that the little bird had listened. It’s not his fault, though. I’m sure that Batman is the one encouraging him to go back to the streets. Batman just proves once again that he doesn’t have his birdies’ best interests at heart. So I’ll give another warning, this time. Maybe I’ll need to be more persuasive. It’s for his own good, in the long run.

When I catch up with Tertius, I’m not entirely surprised but slightly dismayed to see that he’s accompanied by Nightwing. My predecessor (only by six months - we actually coincided for years; coincided and not coincidentally, were coinfected) and my successor. B is not completely reckless then; at least he didn’t send the fledgling out alone. Primus is older than I am. He can take care of himself. I have no quarrel with him, nor is he my quarry, and as long as he doesn’t interfere, I will leave him be.

I trail them for a while, longer than I should have been able to get away with. (I am just that good, it’s true, but I’m still annoyed that they’re not paying enough attention to their surroundings. It’s like they think they’re safe.)

Then Robin jumps off a building before firing his grapple.

There’s green, and five bodies falling, and I see it hear it relive it, over and over and there’s a crowbar somewhere too, laughter, falling, thud. Too many thuds.

Not everything can be erased.

I miss the rest of his swing, and though I can see him on the other side of the street, safely landed, laughing with Nightwing, I don’t care.

Risky.

Unacceptable risk.

How many little Robins need to fall fail fall fail?

I swing across and grab the boy, trapping him against my chest with one arm while grabbing a syringe and jabbing it into his neck with the other. I know right where the armored collar ends and vulnerable skin starts.

The drugs work fast but not that fast - I have to hold him still until he’s unconscious. He struggles and fights but can't escape.

“Shhh little bird. Brave little bird,” I murmur. The helmet has built-in voice modulators, so between those and the effects of a Pit-enhanced puberty, I have no concern that Nightwing will recognize my voice.

Nightwing advances towards me. “Put him down.”

“Get any closer and I'll snap his neck,” I say to Nightwing. Robin’s pulse gallops hard enough that I can feel it through my gloves. I'm lying. I'm a lying liar who lies but Tertius doesn't know that, so I whisper into his ear. “Shhhh, this is for your own good.”  

The fight slowly drains out of him, leaving boneless heavy limbs. I sing Bob Marley to him. “I rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun, three little birds pitch by my doorstep.” I lower him down gently, for a moment regretting the loss of his pliant weight against me. In another world, he would have been my brother - brother in arms, out of my arms. With a pang of loss, I step away.

Nightwing doesn't attack until I'm safely away from the little bird, and I approve. Maybe my death taught him something after all.

“B knows you're here?” I ask. “Knows that his Robin is jumping off buildings without securing his line first?”

I see his eyes narrow through the domino. With a snarl, he jumps to close the distance.

He's fast. Faster than he used to be, but I'm still faster. I grab twist shift my weight and he's on his back six feet away. He was always bigger than me and that hasn't changed, but I've been watching him for weeks now. I know that I'm better.

“You've grown up well, first Robin. I like the skin-tight suit.”  

He flips to his feet and approaches with more caution this time, circling.

“You look good, though I think my butt would look better in that.” We engage again. This time we exchange a few blows before once more he’s on the ground.

“I could do this all night,” I say as he catches his breath.

“Who are you?” he snarls and attacks again.

“Noone of consequence,” I say as I block and move into an attack of my own.

“Don’t quote movies at me.”

“Shall I quote Jane Austen instead?” He twitches - wondering if I just got lucky or somehow knew.

“What did you do to Robin?”

“Don’t worry - I respect him and I take a real interest in his welfare.” I grin behind my helmet as I see that he recognizes the quote. I take advantage of his distraction to snap a roundhouse kick at his head that staggers him back.

“You’re racking your brains to figure out who I am. Don’t strain yourself, sweetie.”

Nightwing comes at me again, speedy and strong, like a mixed martial arts cage fighter. Like Bruce, he doesn’t use any weapons besides batarangs, and I can appreciate his brutal style. It’s not his fault that I know him so well; that I can predict his moves.

“I’ve never met you before in my life,” he snarls. I dance and dodge, so most of his blows don’t connect. But when they do! He’s strong and hits hard and that contact feels so good. I think about tomorrow’s bruises and grin.

“Oh, but you have! I’m hurt, I really am.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve changed. I can admit that.” We’re more evenly matched than I first thought, which thrills me so deliciously. I like that he’s putting up a good fight - rising to the challenge. I could take out a gun and end it (to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them,) but that’s the opposite of the solution that I want.

“What should I call you?”

“Napoleon, but I’m taller and better looking. Machiavelli, but I’m more moral. The Count of Monte Cristo, but I’m not a sandwich.”

He almost laughs and I love it, but I take his moment of distraction and I grab his arm and force him down to the ground. I twist it until I can feel it’s nearly out of its socket.

“I bet you never realized how much of a crush I used to have on you,” I say in a low voice, just for him. He thrashes against my hold but he can’t escape without dislocating his own arm.

“I think you’re fucking bonkers,” Nightwing grumps and he looks even cuter with the pouty lip.

“Tell Batman to keep Robin off of patrol. Let the kid go to school, get enough sleep, wake up without anything aching. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s too late for us but not the kid.”

“Why do you care so goddamn much? Who are we to you?”

“You still don’t remember me? I’m terribly disappointed,” I purr. Digging my fingers even harder into the pressure point on his wrist, I risk letting go with one hand so that I can grab another syringe and jab it into his neck. I drop it and caress his cheek.

“Melodies pure and true, this is my message to you,” I sing as the drug floods his system.

I wait until he’s almost out, eyes closing behind the lenses. But not gone yet. I want him to remember this. “I’ll see you around, Jaybird.”

  


***********

 

Jay wakes up, bound back to back with Tim. They're on the same Gotham rooftop. Now that he's conscious, it won't be hard to escape, even though Tim is still out. Once he breaks the zip ties and the duct tape, he sees a note pinned under a brick.

“ _If I see Robin again, I'm taking him. I will protect him if no one can._ ” And then a smiley face and a heart.

Jason realizes that his suit is ripped at his side. He peels back the Kevlar to see another note scrawled across his abs. It's a phone number. Then “ _call me XX OO_.”  

Fucking insane.

“See you around, Jaybird,” echoes in his head. Only one person called him that and he's dead.

But both notes are in Dick’s loopy scrawl. Jason can’t reconcile the evidence, stark in black marker, against the weight of memory. The body, the coffin, the scent of fresh turned earth and cloying lilies in the autumn air - the familiar handwriting arcing across his own body. How can they both be true?

Jason traces the permanent ink on his stomach. He could use the number and the equipment in the cave to trace a cell phone back to a general location - at least narrow it down to a block or two. From there, he could find the Red Hood’s hideout, maybe even force some kind of confrontation. Bring the guy to Arkham where he belongs.

But part of him wants nothing more than to make the call, to hear the Red Hood’s voice without the synthesizers in the helmet. Maybe that way he’d find out for sure. It couldn’t be Dick - could it? Dick was dead.

Didn’t change the fact that he burns to hear Dick’s voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers and Triggers: Dick becomes the Red Hood, not Dick's thought processes and decisions are not healthy. He does gross, inappropriate things, like carving warnings in thugs' skin, and says creepy things to Jason. He is mentally unstable and has definite mental health issues, though I don't list any by name. He doesn't kill anyone - his revenge plan is different. If you have any questions or concerns, please send me a comment or find me on my tumblr
> 
> Thanks to IMightwing, empires and geckoholic for the betas. Yes, I was greedy and a bit uncertain about the right way for this story to unfold, so I got a lot of help! Special thanks to Leap_of_Faith for hand-holding, cheerleading, and plot bouncing-off-of.


End file.
